


I Still Need You (Minor Accessible)

by candiedbonemarrow



Series: Teen Counterparts to Explicit Fics [2]
Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Adventure, EVERYONE IS OVER 21 as dictated in canon, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, dirkjake - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21613270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candiedbonemarrow/pseuds/candiedbonemarrow
Summary: This is the Teen rated version of my other fic by this name! If you're already reading that one, there's no need to follow this one!
Relationships: Jake English/Dirk Strider
Series: Teen Counterparts to Explicit Fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1556152
Kudos: 3





	1. Liquid Courage

Running and dodging through thick, dense brush, losing the world behind him in a whirlwind of his moving feet, in every clod of dirt and grass that rips from the ground in a puff of dust. His legs shake and tremble and he doesn't care, not when he's so full of heat and exhaustion and yet _so much vigor and life._ He can't stay still. Running is the only thing he knows how to do, the only thing that keeps his blood steadily pumping to the tip of his tongue that twists together all sorts of audial charisma. There's rocks stabbing into his feet, glass splinters in his palms and it's glorious. Up and up, up and up, until he's here; A hole in the world, thousands of feet below him, possibly, a pool of luscious and vibrant blue water as clear and deep as a lover's poem. Lush jungle surrounds him, the smell of rainy citrus and moss penetrating his nose, and at the edge of this pool he looks down into, a small cabin that he calls his home. And as he stands up to his knees in a rushing river that will guide him down, he takes a moment to breathe.

He's coming back from his second exploit at the bar this week; he has no clue how he hasn't been banned from that establishment yet. Maybe the bartenders enjoy his fooling around. He must have had a few bottles of whiskey, with the way his ears tingle. He remembers very little, but what he can recall is this: He caught yet another tourist in his silly little game and was chased out and into the street. Then there were cars, swerving to miss him by a hair, some of them scraping the backs of his ankles. People chasing him, police sirens. Not like he did anything wrong at the bar, of course, but a civil disturbance is more than enough to get them involved. Police cars are faster than he is, but he's also got a few empty bottles of alcohol on him to throw around when he needs to (or, he did,) and so he threw them, and he ran, and ran, all the way here.

Ever since he made the decision to move here on this relatively secluded little tropical island, he's found nothing but fruitless endeavor. Anything that's worth the trouble is easy to obtain; buy it, take it, what have you. And, so is all that's useless to him, unfortunately. All of these cutesy little broads venturing here for spring break that come in and lavish him with disgusting want; how they tease their filthy digits on his golden skin. He's 'such a dreamy guy' they say, they listen foolishly of his exploits, wandering off only to shove a pill between their gob or down a drink or two. Partiers. People who view a destination as somewhere to romp around and destroy their bodies and, heaven forbid, lay with a foreigner just to say they did it. And that's what they want from him, and oh, like fools, they fall for his sly charm and wrap themselves around his fingers to play with as he pleases. At the promise of giving them pleasure, he has them run his errands, and then he sends them off with nothing more than a grunt when they tug at the waistband of his pants. Use him? No, no one uses Jake English, not unless they're stupid enough to be used themselves.

That is... well, he would never let someone do so, of course-but, then there's...

Ah, but that's why he does all of these things, isn't it? To forget. And it's exactly why he's about to jump off this mountain and into the open maw of the whirring rapids below, raging with anger. All as a way to clear his mind, and for, adventure, only...

Try as he might, struggle as he will, there is nothing in this world that comes close to the rush of adrenaline he gets when his thoughts stray in such a direction, the way his pulse thrums in his veins, beats in the very tips of his ears, in his fingers, nothing, _nothing_ compares to the adventure that is Dirk Strider. His duality holds true; the capriciousness of his nature proves to be the most predictable part of him, and yet, his foreseeable actions are uncertainty. Dirk Strider is proof of polarity, of conflict. His love is the destruction of his partner and of himself, and his hatred of himself is the foundation on which he builds his person; to be Dirk Strider is to be a villain in every sense of the word, and still come out the hero of everyone's story. He is caution. He is spontaneity. He is soft spoken and yet his words hold such power and intensity that their presence becomes the room and everyone is enamored, so very immersed in them. A shadow that lurks, but is never unwelcome. A distanced, unfeeling automaton, and the most passionate, wistful poet ever born. An amalgamation of every red flag and cringeworthy interest and it all amounts to a genuine, loyal-and-true man who will do everything in his power to be the best he can be. For you. _By_ you. He will throw himself into the fiery kiln of hell if it means he can come out anew in the shape of your greatest desires, and be everything you've ever needed. Everything you've ever needed, and still, at his very core, everything Dirk Strider is, and has ever been. Dirk is simultaneously one of the most selfless and selfish people he's ever met, and even when his motives are questionable, they ring through with the melody of his heart, captivating those who have felt just as deeply as him.

Once upon a time, a little bird with white, gilded feathers sang of a journey so terrifying he was left in scraps. He sang of feats so heroic they would be strung forever through time, of his sacrifice, of his bravery. The truth is that the bird hated true adventure. The truest adventure, the kind of courage that only exists in legend. This bird of white gold was a liar; he would spring into action and danger with no prior warning, but adventure was never action. It was never life-threatening risks, no. Adventure is confronting the things you are afraid of because you're afraid of it, because it's what needs to be done. The bird, a coward, a liar, would rather die of his own stupid wanton fantasies than face even the most minor of inconveniences.

The bird, in a moment of clarity, chose to face the beast he had fallen in love with, if only to know if he was capable of adventure at all.

He knew exactly what he was playing with, what it would do to him. it was not Dirk who left his wing charred and useless; Jake had stolen his hand from him and pressed it into his feathers, forced his claws from his paws to dig at flesh and bone, screamed at him to swallow him whole with teeth and flame and wanting. And oh, that beast of boy, now a man, did exactly as he asked. An everlasting storm of flame, an inferno so bright there is only blindness, a hurricane of blades and claws and all of it, all of it love. All of it true, raw feeling, full to the bursting point, the overflow that could not be caged by his beautiful, unsightly body, leaving him only ashes and bones. To a bird who could handle nothing more than child's play, it was terror, and after he was reborn in that love he fled. He fled far away from those flames of liquid amber warmth of the heart, and into his tepid tree, chirping excuse after excuse as to why he could not handle his own inferno in his own heart, when there was nothing there at all. Only curiosity, and a bubbling cauldron of the start of his bludgeoning feelings.

Yes, start of. His romantic interest could be separated from his feelings of friendship, luckily; that was the advantage of acting on an impulsive interest, instead of one he'd long been building up, like Dirk had been. It'd been much easier for him to recover. He thought it would be just as effortless for him in the future, but oh, was he, undoubtedly, wrong.

Dirk had proved loyal even as the fragments of his heart lay scattered across the endless expanse that is everything, hidden in other universes far, far from this one, unable to be retrieved and put back together how they belonged. He was respectful; he never mentioned his own feelings for him again. He might have preferred to pretend he didn't ever have those feelings, but then, Jake would have had to deny it, too, and that would have been impossible. And instead of mourning the loss of their partnership, he sought to further and strengthen the bond of their friendship, so that it might never be broken the way his heart had been.

With every new string woven into the tapestry that had been their companionship, Jake's little cauldron bubbled over. At first, small pops. The liquid was watery enough not to climb up the sides of the pot, and only the little splatters the pot would spit ever made it out. But they simmered, with every adoring glance he would sneak from behind his shades when he thought Jake wasn't looking, with every loving smile he fought so hard to knit tight into neutrality, with every lingering moment after a hug, where he'd maybe drag a finger or two against the small of his back. Little nothings, too, the kind where he'd lay next to him in silence and simply enjoy his company, or clean up after one of his messes, or hand him a bite to eat. How he'd rub his thumb over his palms when he inspected him for wounds. How he'd ramble about something that didn't matter. And as they simmered, they thickened, and they clambered up that pot of smooth, solid steel, and they would flow and flow until there was no more pot, only a cavern of churning magma that erupts at the very mention of his name.

That tapestry woven of iron inforced spider silk tore, one day, when a little bird's wing finally healed over, after all the fighting was said and done, took off with the half he sunk his talons into, leaving a wounded wolf alone to tend to the ever-bleeding gash in his chest.

The magma, however, never ceased to swell in magnitude.

It crescendos with every thump of his foot, with every pound of his pulse, with every long breath that draws into that poorly sealed chamber, and there will come a day when he steps forward and it blasts from its fragile little ball, and he will be left behind, clammy and cold and still and ripped limb from limb. It'll take the form of a cryptid, of which the world has never seen, and it will hunt and stalk for its prey, still bleeding, still whimpering in its spot. But it won't strike, not until its prey has regained its strength. It does not intend to strike without valor.

He breaks through the surface of the water and lifts his numb and heavy arms above his head to start paddling towards land. He doesn't know how deep this hole goes, but maybe one day he'll dive down. He hasn't gotten around to it yet.

He doesn't want to, though. He wants adventure, to love his wolf boy with his burning lion heart. He longs to be ripped from the air and devoured and savored and carnally, recklessly loved, even if it would destroy him. His wings were cowardice, flighty birdsong, his only passage to freedom and yet cavernously empty on the inside, so much so that if you were to drill a hole through them and blow through it, you could hear the wind itself. To think that his freedom never brought him happiness, only hollow, meaningless toys. He should throw a toy or two in the direction of a ravenous, lone wolf, the one that circled him so long ago, the one on the edge of the world, still waiting. Waiting for his return, waiting for him to grit his own teeth and say "Have at 'em, ol' chap! It's all yours, if you can take it from me!"

Maybe he will devour him in punishment for ever leaving.

Isn't that an exciting thought?

He bursts into his home filled with relics of another time, wobbling his way to bed. Always stumbling, always falling and knocking things over, breaking unimportant objects as he scrambles to get back on his feet. The door is stubborn, scolds him for downing glass after glass. He kicks it open. He doesn't need the door's shit. Tears his shirt from his body and collapses into the sweet embrace of his covers, his beautiful covers that caress him so carefully, even as he tackles them with violent recklessness. He huffs into them, recovering from his struggle, and then lifts his head to allow himself to breathe.

His eyes flit over his abandoned computer screen, dusty from years of neglect. Maybe it's the pinkish tinge of his cheeks, or the heat that prickles in every inch of his body, the explosion of excitement that singes every fractaled nerve. Is it all the whiskey he's downed, then? Is that the fiery pool in the pit of his stomach? Or is it something more? Is it bravery, perhaps?

No. He's too chicken to feel anything of the sort. He's the yellow, lily-livered coward who bolted away from the only thing he's ever craved so badly in his life. This isn't him. He could never own up to his feelings of passion he holds for him, none of the softness he wishes he could indulge in. Even the thought of sitting next to him on the couch and leaning into his shoulder has Jake bolting for a hill to roll from until his head becomes gelatin. And he hasn't, talked to him since he... and would he even care to answer? Has the divide become so great it can never be patched? Does it even matter, now? He'll bet on the dollar that Dirk would rather be left alone, especially if he were to find out about how much he'd been drinking. And Jake would spill all of his feelings to that rickety little keyboard he hasn't bothered to grace with his fingers with, and Dirk would know. And then he'd cut him into tiny little pieces and throw them into a blender and feed him to the plants.

But he doesn't care. All he can think of in that fuzzy little brain of his, all plugged up with warm cotton spice and flaming liquor, are those honed pearly fangs of his ambered lion against the trembling skin of his neck, breathing an inferno into his bloodstream that would set him alight forevermore, an honor so perfect and so great he'd be strung throughout all of time in a sweet song of immortality.

He loses himself in his burning desires, and in that gift of liquid courage.

Clumsy hands yank the chair from underneath the computer desk and his bulky build crashes down upon it, fingers fumble with the power button. The boot up sound teases at his heartstrings and floods him with memories. Memories, all of them Dirk. Every late night he'd stay up and fall asleep at his monitor typing meaningless chatter at the very best of the best, and Dirk would listen, as if any of it truly mattered, because it mattered to him. All of those shameful nights where he'd pull up some of those vocal audio clips he sent him and trace his index finger along the edge of his zipper, grind his palm into his shorts. Fight dates with robots. Fight dates with humans. Pressing his best friend against the wall of some dastardly cave full of monsters to give him a quick good luck kiss only to have it given back to him like he was being revived from the dead. Every touch that ever sparked life in Jake's patternless heart, everything that taught him how to feel.

He whips his head from side to side until he hears a long, drawn out crack, feels his neck pop and straighten. Rolls his shoulders, arches his back, sits up and sobers as much as he can manage. His glare is set firmly on the screen, intensity swelling further when he clicks on an orange chumhandle from another lifetime.

He has a date with adventure, tonight.

"Come on, _Strrrrrider_ , let's dance."


	2. Emotional Exhaustion and Mormonism

It all feels like a dream, something that can't possibly be real, like waking up to the world covered in a haze of yellow and purple fog so thick you breathe electric grape. The creaking of a door, the clinking and jangling of keys as they're placed on a shelf, the soft sound of fabric sliding against fabric as he hangs up his jacket. Snow from the blizzard outside blasts through the open entryway and melts on the tile and the mat, leaving a small puddle despite there being just a few moments for it to act. A click, as the cold is shut out, and he kicks off his shoes, and, socks now, too, after they come in contact with said puddle and soak in the water. Nothing but a dream, as still and as fleeting as the daylight during the winter solstice, and yet, the unending darkness of the night behind that door and the flickering of the numbers on his dying digital clock remind him that no, it's not something he's imagining. It's 11 PM, it's cold outside, and he's truly alone for the first time since the year 2425.

It's been a few months since he moved out of that apartment he and Dave shared together, and if he's honest with himself, he's not adjusting well. He was never too great at adjusting to change, anyway; well, that's not... entirely true, but it's also not a complete lie, is it? He keeps himself sharp, on his toes. He needs to be ready for things like this, for sudden shifts in circumstances, for curveballs that might throw him out of rhythm. _He_ threw this curveball. Right. It was his idea to get off his ass and hole himself up away from one of the few people he still keeps in contact with, because, why? Because he woke up one day and felt like he had to? Because he felt like he didn't fit there the way he wanted? He could have! They were doing great, as far as either of them were concerned, figuring out ways to cope with all of the baggage they were left with when they were thrown back into society after saving, said society. No one has been _grateful_ for their sacrifices, but, no one knows.

No one knows, except for them. _No one,_ and even if they told someone, they wouldn't understand, because how could they? How could anyone understand?

His new... house? House, that's right, he has a _house,_ now-it's a clusterfuck. Blanketed, thoroughly, in plush, round smuppet ass, and whatever shitty swords his pre-scratch self had kept in that godawful hellhouse Dave was subjected to. Wires running across the floor, memory chips and circuit boards scattered on his coffee table, empty take-out coffee cups on every flat surface that probably add up to some number close to a hundred, if not higher. He hasn't picked a single one up since he started grabbing them on his third day here. A dirty clothes pile next to the shower, nothing in his fridge but leftover takeout from last night, film and camera equipment set up everywhere for _filming purposes only._ He takes the batteries out now, keeps things unplugged ever since Dave told him how Bro would use them to _watch_ him. He still has all of the footage his beta timeline self collected and the cameras that collected it stuffed in a beaten up box in the garage. He rams into it every time he comes home, just for good measure. Never again. _Never again._

 _Enough_ , he thinks. Today has already been enough, and he doesn't have to do anything more than exist right now. That's enough, at least. It's enough, because it has to be, because it's all he can manage.

He's too tired to take his clothes off, or take a shower, or even eat, but he manages a glass of water and then has a sit down at his computer. He barely catches his reflection in the mirror as he passes by it, hardly has time to process it; eyes dark, heavy, and bloodshot, face sunken slightly, pale and fragile and wasting away like severed limbs tangled in the mast of a branch somewhere no one can reach, falling apart at the command of the breeze. He doesn't stop to take a second look. His image is just shy of one of his toothpick-thin marionettes; draped over his chair, arms as skeletal as they are right now, hung on the corners by their joints so that he doesn't have to use as much precious energy to lift them up. A shadow, perhaps, that you might hallucinate in the corner of your mirror as you turn away, hunched over you with vacant eyes and sharp, needle-like teeth. He'd be gone as soon as you turned to look again. He's wondering if he can continue to be this frame of a human being without notice, without fully fading into black.

Can he, should he, will he; the three biggest factors when it comes to how long he'll last by himself. He could, he knows he has the means to, and that he's good at it; if that game taught him one thing, it's that there's so many ways to die it's almost _easier_ to die than to live, as long as there's the opportunity to be brought back to life. And, that's a reason why he _shouldn't._ None of them know if they've been left with anything but their former powers, their placement of royalty on Derse and Prospit, and whatever boonbucks they had leftover that converted to cash. Is immortality a factor he can consider? _Should_ he consider it? Does he, care enough about being here, to consider it? Is staying alive for anyone else worth the trouble of life?

Is it, terrifying to think like that? He doesn't know, really, because he's never felt any different about himself, but he _is_ trying. For Dave. He can always try for Dave, can always do better, as long as it makes him happy. Dave deserves to be happy.

After all, isn't that why he's still here?

Now that he's thinking about him, he might as well shoot him a text, just to make sure he's doing okay.

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

TT: Hey, man. How's it goin'? Hope you're warmer than I am right now, because this is fuckin' ridiculous. Gotta love climate change, right?

TG: i'm freezin my balls off over here bro

TG: fuckin colder than it's ever been during the winter time and you took all the plush rumps with you and now i have jack shit to pile over myself when there's no more blankets left

TG: tell me you're taking advantage of those because if you're not you're committing a fucking crime and that crime is called pissing all over my good standing

TG: driving our asses all the way over to one of those water silos and having me sit in the car while you climb up there just to betray me with a waterfall of other people's piss showers

TG: at least it would be warmer than this

TG: i've got the fucking ac up to 70 degrees and this shit still ain't fuckin warm man

TG: i'm starting to wonder if i need to get it replaced or if texas has fallen victim to global warming

TG: oh hey by the way how the hell is MORMON HELL STATE

Alright, he can already tell it's going to be one of those long nights. Dandy. Absolutely splendid. As if he didn't already want to close the book on today, and chuck it into a dumpster and light the whole thing on fire, but you know what? For Dave. Anything for Dave, so, he pulls up his Spotify and scrolls until he finds his Lo-Fi playlist, dials back the volume a bit, and lets it whisper through his speakers to join the vents in becoming ambient noise for their almost midnight conversation, which will probably be Dave talking at Dirk until he can't find it in him to talk anymore.

TG: seriously dude, what the hell is going on in your head

That's a good question. Everything, probably.

TG: you don't like kids, you hate religion, you hate the fucking desert, you can't be bothered with community bullshit, you hate inconsistent weather and heavy snow and all of that other shit ass jazz and you choose FUCKING UTAH

TG: it's everything you've ever loathed in one little squared off shitscram that plagues the american map

TG: as if america wasn't already a plague on the map

TG: god fucking damn, dude, you're literally insane

TG: what did you think was going to happen

TG: did you think your omnipotent being would reform the social and political climate of that godforsaken hellscape the moment you stepped foot on their 'holy land'

TG: these fuckers literally wear fucking shorts underneath their damn pants

TG: their underwear is a full body mech suit made of pure unadulterated chastity dipped in the blood of their lord and savior jesus christ and blessed by their motherfuckin mans the holy ghost

TG: there's a church every five fucking minutes if you live in a populated area

TG: they are surrounded by what fuels them

TG: they are in their element

TG: spiritually balls deep in their power source

TG: these fuckers catch you in the corner of their eye they will fuckin hone in on you with a mission to convert you to mormonism by the end of their interaction with you

TG: they will pull out all the stops bro they'll fuckin press the nuke button and you'll be bombed with their fucking product promotion for their shit ass religion they'll give you a free book of mormon and invite you into their home and feed you homemade chocolate chip cookies but surprise motherfucker those cookies were chock full of arsenic and they'll only give your life back if you promise to follow the word of christ

Oh, the Missionaries. Every first Sunday of the month, they drop by his door, without fail, with their chipper attitudes and bright outlook on life and they say to him 'wouldn't you like to know the truth? Wouldn't you like to know about eternal life? About having your own planet to rule after death?' It's so funny how some parts are so, close, to SBURB, or at least, the start of it, you know? Becoming gods after their untimely demise, having, of course, their own planet, hell existing. Hell, _is_ SBURB, if hell is anything. But they're so ridiculously wrong about everything else that vomiting is the only option. Can anyone truly believe there's a god out there that's loving and merciful? Can anyone believe someone is there for them? And, in the same breath, do they believe that same god would damn them to hell for drinking _caffeine?_ That periods are punishment for eating a single fucking apple? It's all pretty ridiculous to him, and if they could only see that sending them out to recruit others isn't a recruitment tool, maybe they'd think it was ridiculous, too, but Missionaries are still desperately trying to save 'the damned' for a reason.

Of course, his criticisms don't really matter, because they can do what they want, as long as they look at the _Do Not Contact_ list and leave him the fuck alone. He's tired of being harassed every moment of his free time by these fuckers, even if they're just young kids like him. He has shit _to do._ They can go find someone else to bother who's actually willing to listen to a bunch of Scientology-esque garbage. These poor kids, though. They think it's their responsibility to deliver everyone from 'a life in hell' and being turned away only strengthens their belief that they are the few who know the truth. Man, if only he could find a way to dismantle the Mormon Church.

TG: they dunk their children in that nasty little bath of 'holy water' and hold them under for a whole damn minute expecting them not to drown at the ripe young age of 8

TG: they go up to their kid and they say to them

TG: 'alright timmy you little shit it's time for you to bend your soul over so the holy motherfuckin ghost can penetrate your body with his righteous purity timmy his absolute sanctity'

TG: 'this motherfuckin dead guy is gonna exonerate you of all your sins and cleanse you of your darkness so that you may be ushered into heaven'

TG: 'but only if you never sin again'

TG: 'touch your dick once in your life and you're going to hell timmy'

TG: 'don't like it? too bad because if you don't devote your life to our wicked ass dj of the blessed land our dear lord and savior jesus christ who lays down the freshest and sickest of beats you'll be cast into outer darkness for all of eternity and all your disgusting filthied soul will ever see again is the deep blackness of nothing and the sins that brought you here forever in the back of your mind'

TG: 'there is no severing yourself from the church there is only being a good little mormon boy who doesn't do anything but dip his saltines in water and pray to jesus to have mercy on your soul for accidentally bringing your classmate's pen home because you forgot it was his but oh timmy that's stealing you're definitely going to hell for that so buckle up and get ready to have a barb wire bat shoved up your ass for eons you sick bastard how dare you ask to borrow a fucking pen you should have brought your own'

TG: 'oh and by the way timmy little boys don't write in scented glitter gel pens you're stuck with red blue or black and you better fucking like it because any dissolvence of your masculinity can and will result in you being perceived as gay by your peers and then it's church conversion therapy time timmy and oh boy are they gonna bust your fuckin balls over there timmy you'll come out of there with them shrunk back into your bladder because you're a little piss boy for using scented glitter gel pens timmy and you pee your little piss pants like a nubby pink lump of baby'

TG: 'don't think of asking for help from anyone but god but don't expect god to answer your prayers every time you filthy degenerate how dare you exploit the kindness of god and his son our faultless lord and savior jesus fucking christ'

TG: 'sorry bro it's just how it is once christened always christened and you can never cut ties from god he is always watching now get in the hallowed jizz water and spread your cheeks for the holy spirit timmy you're never going to be the same once you feel his reverent light'

He loves his brother, more than anything, he truly does, but sometimes he can get out of hand, and the nausea that rocks Dirk's fragile, frail body causes him to tremble and shake. Why, Dave?

TT: Hey, bro?

TT: That's really nasty.

TT: I mean, that's a whole ass kid you're talking about there. Don't talk about children like that.

TG: i'm just sayin man that's exactly what they fuckin do and it's fucking disgusting

TG: not like christianity is any better but like damn the mormons are nasty fucked up

It's the truth, but, like, he shouldn't say it, you know? Or at least, not that way. But before he can type a response, Dave's given his own. Stupid speed. His own abilities have dropped after he let himself go like this, but fuck, Dave's always been a pretty fast typer, has always been able to get a few more words in than everyone else, before anyone else.

TG: anyway bro did you remember to eat something today?

TG: yeah i know you're shit at taking care of yourself

TG: explains bro's shit ass guardian feeding habits

Oh yeah, and then there's that. The fact that there's multiple versions of his absolutely fucked self out there, still doing their disgusting thing. There's probably at least one out there, right now, that thinks he's the coolest fucking thing on the planet, and that everything he does is exactly what it should be. That fucker is ruining everything for everyone because he can, and because he enjoys it, and because he feels like it's the only thing to do. Is there no relief? Is there no recourse for his actions, is there nothing _he_ can do to repent for them? How does he make up for them, when he can barely make up for himself? Because isn't he the same? Didn't he do the same things, and isn't he still doing some of those things?

Isn't that why he's here?

Because he wanted to be alone? To find out how to do better? Can't he do that? Can't he do better?

He can only imagine what's happening out there. Thousands of people, dead. His friends? Tied between his fingers, jerked around at the waist as little puppets for his vile and twisted entertainment, having to fight against a narrative he created to torture them, only for their efforts to be wasted because truly, there is no end to him. Roxy? Subject to the horrors of every disgusting worldview that's ever popped in front of his eyes for him to consume in any way, shape, or form, even if he doesn't believe in those things, in order to give her grief that will never go away. Dave? Without the support of someone who needs him now more than ever, watching as his brother takes the shape of his former abuser, having to address past trauma in the future and carry more with him. Ja-

Not there. Not right now.

He pulls the trashcan hidden underneath his desk onto his lap as he brushes his hair back to vomit. It burns.

TG: you need food dickass and if you think for one fucking second i'm going to forget your aversion to it you're dead fucking wrong

TG: i'd feed you myself but i mean you're the one who packed up and left with short notice and like i COULD send one of my bastard doomed selves over there but i doubt you'd like that

TT: Every single time I hear about what he's done to you, I get the understandable and completely rational urge to, may I say, eat him. Crunch on his bones, with my teeth. Destroy his useless flesh sack WHICH, by the way, is already dead and rotted, and while he may have gotten less than what he deserved, there's nothing I can do about it now and I hate it. I hate how I have been robbed of the opportunity to face the worst parts of me and say to them, "You do not deserve to be alive, and you should have to pay the price for your rampant abuse and neglect."

TG: self-cannibalism

TG: i never thought you would get to that point

TG: like damn i knew you were hungry but i didn't think you'd be willing to put your own arm in your jaws man

TG: what are you gonna do? take a bite out of your own dick?

TG: that's no way to live man

He chuckles a dark, dry laugh, hoarse and strained and bitter at no one, at nothing, teeth grit and jaw clenched tightly enough to make gums turn white. A better way to live than this, he thinks. He's, he. He hates this. His guardian knew exactly what was coming and instead of gently and nurturingly guiding him in he chose to beat and break him until he fit into the mold. Didn't matter that he didn't fit the way he was supposed to, that the bones in his arms were splintered and shattered beyond belief, no. He only had to fit. And funnily enough, it's Dave who has the strength to find humor in all of it, not Dirk.

TT: Don't take it like that, Dave. You know that's not what I mean, and I don't appreciate the joke, if I'm honest. Not even in an ironic way. I hope it wasn't a coping mechanism because if it was, I apologize for my scrutiny.

TT: That, thing, you had to endure? That's not me, and I hope I'll never grow to be it.

TT: Or, him, I mean. I shouldn't dehumanize him, it gives people, including myself, an opportunity to blame his behavior on an animalistic and inhuman nature, which is not what that is. He's a perfect example of human cruelty and the exploitation of his position as a guardian and family member. The emotional attachment you still have to him leaves you in a hard and vulnerable position, and I always worry about what might happen if someone like him were to come along and take advantage of that vulnerability. For example, me. I trust you, I do, because I understand that you know his actions were wrong, and that you know you should have never had to be treated in such a way.

TT: But there's a reason I'm keeping myself further away from you, Dave.

TT: I do not want to take advantage of that. I know my habits, I know what kind of terrible shit I'm capable of, and I won't subject you to it for any reason at all. Keeping myself here as you continue to live over there helps prevent that, and while I know you hate my forced isolation, I won't come out of it until I can help myself to learn how to be healthy, Dave.

If that means he never learns how to be healthy? Then so be it. Here he stays, or maybe he'll bury himself further away from everyone, if it's bad enough.

TG: that pretty much guarantees you your magical girl transformation into Bro only like instead of hearts and light ribbons and whooshing sounds or whatever it's ponies and shitty anime cosplay and mlg hentai sounds as you're gifted your one and only dollar store katana pulled directly from your gay ass

TG: you think Bro got to be, in your words, "a grotesque amalgamation of everything i ever was but never wanted to be" by surrounding himself with perfectly healthy and normal people who gave him the attention and care and harsh but constructive criticism he needed? no man

TG: Bro made puppet pornos and jacked off in front of a camera and drew hentai of his favorite characters from his favorite shows and sat on his ass and shoved mountain dew and doritos in his face while cramming every video game he's ever gotten his paws on down his throat

TG: he got his kicks by beating the shit out of his kid brother until he was clinging to consciousness and wigging him out with traps and psychological warfare and capturing it on tape for all of his internet audience to indulge in

TG: privacy? only in the bathroom. forget washing your clothes like a decent human being it's time to take them into the fucking shower and scrub yourself down with soap and bleach until you can't feel your skin anymore and you're sitting on the floor bawling your eyes out wondering what you did wrong by being born into this world

There's nothing wrong with Dave, never has been anything wrong with Dave. It's not fair. It's not fair, it's not fair-

TG: there is nothing more refreshing than taking a shower naked and not having eyes on you at all times and putting your clothes in the washing machine and having them come out fresh and dry and clean and smelling like fucking fresh meadow or heaven forbid clean laundry and pulling them on while they're still warm instead of standing in the hot sun to feel the heat wave comb through your withered form with every other cat that forgot to make a sharp turn before that one pothole that left them dripping in sewer water

TG: wintertime rolls around? you're on your own buddy good luck getting hypothermia if you decide to wash up

He didn't deserve it and he still doesn't deserve it, or him.

TG: anyway you still haven't answered the important question of 'have you eaten today'

TG: don't ignore me Dirk it ain't cool

Dave is far too kind to him.

TT: Haha, very funny. I'm not avoiding it, I promise, I'm just thinking about it and addressing other problems at the same time.

He gives himself a moment or two to think about it. See, the problem with being hungry is that it doesn’t bother him until someone brings food up, or he smells a strong scent. The stench of vomit from the trash can helps to ease the pain in his stomach, so that’s good? He’d kill for something homemade, or, at the very least, something that isn’t drowned in moisture-stealing sodium. Oh, his poor body. He may hate it but it has to hate him more for being subjected to the same kind of rampant abuse and neglect he’s fighting so hard to stop.

TT: I might have eaten something for lunch today? Or, maybe breakfast?

TT: I'm not a fan of having to go back and think on the pleasantries of today, if I'm honest. But when have I ever liked to think about my day?

TT: I was in a rush this morning because I ended up waking up late. Should have been up by 4:30, but slept in 'till 5:00, and by then I was too crunched for time to eat anything more than maybe a bagel. But I didn't even eat a bagel, I just stopped to get a quick coffee and left for work.

TT: I guess maybe I could have gotten one if they had a few in the warmer already, but they probably just got there to open, so I highly doubt they would have had anything prepped for me. Wasn't risking having them take ten minutes to make a sandwich.

TT: Uh, I definitely didn't get lunch. I know I had lunch break, so that wasn't the issue. The issue, however, was a mandatory fire drill given by the state that decided to start as soon as I pulled the phone up to order anything. My ears are still ringing.

TT: Didn't get off till 10:00 PM, got home not even 15 minutes ago. I have leftovers in my fridge but I think I should save those for when I care enough to move my arms.

TG: you wanna know why you don't wanna move it's because you haven't given your body a single shred of nutrition in any way shape or form today pal you haven't made a single effort to get some real fucking food into your mouth

TG: damn man not even a smoothie? like i get you need your coffee for some fucking godawful reason because shit fam striders would shoot coffee up their veins if it would mean it lasted longer i know i live off that shit as much as you do and there's no way i could go a day without a cup unless i was under optimal conditions

TT: Optimal conditions meaning 'Egbert Town', I suppose?

TG: don't fuckin do this to me this late in the evening bruh

TG: stupid fucking washington state with its lame rain and shitty street culture and mountains and fresh air and possession of

TG: of John

Oh jeez.

TG: i don't know what to hate more bro washington texas or myself

TG: it's my own damn fault i didn't go with him in the first place but fuck man that shit hurts so bad

TG: it hurts and you know it does

TG: i hate to think about the way you've seen me when i can't let the day go and relax because i don't have him around i hate the way i feel when i think about him and i hate the way i can't even look at our stupid pesterlogs without unraveling at the seams like some 16th century child's doll because his seam ripping abilities are fucking honed and no matter how tightly knit my stitches are that fucker is gonna wiggle under them and shred at them with his blade so that i can't hold my stuffing

TG: it's so painful to talk to him when i know it'll probably be another week or two before he even replies

TG: so caught up in his stupid football shit

TG: he never even liked football until i made a comment about how ironic it would be if he became the quarterback

TG: motherfucker went and did exactly that

TG: figures

TG: he could do anything he wanted to as long as he set off on doing it instead of sitting on his ass

TG: if it's not football it's school or Casey or the rest of our mutual friends and i can't even be mad at those other three because they're important to me too i want him to do well in school and i want good things for Casey despite not knowing her as well as i'd like to and our mutual friends deserve to have his company and he has to have balance

TG: i end up being pushed back

TG: it's not like i can't see why, and i don't blame him

TG: i did the same thing

The odd familiarity of Dave’s words stir a soft swelling of dread in his chest that only grows as Dave types on.

TG: i think i could have messaged him on that meteor you know i should have done something to keep us tighter all he got was Davesprite and the only thing i ever heard about him was that he spent way more time with Jade than John and that John hated his fucking guts because he wasn't even me

TG: he wanted to have 'the real me' to talk to

AR. Jake was always so fucking peeved when AR decided to take the reigns for him, but there’s no doubt in Dirk’s mind that maybe there was relief, too. How could there not be? Someone for Jake to take his anger out on without feeling guilty, for him to direct his frustrations with Dirk at. And it would have been a little satisfying, wouldn’t it have been?

TG: i can't even imagine how Davesprite must have felt you know

TG: bastard probably hated my guts just as much as John hated Davesprite's

TG: Davesprite being demoted because he was 'just a sprite' as if he wasn't one of the more critical iterations of me

TG: years of friendship and the ultimate sacrifice for his best bro only to end in John's ungrateful ass kicking him to the curb for being something other than me

TG: not gonna lie, it makes me feel really important to him

TG: but i mean i guess i got what i deserved in the end right? what goes around comes around and this motherfucker just got wracked with every bullet in the magazine

TG: John pulled out a gun marked 'Dave's Massive Douchebag Karma' and took the magazine and wrote down every little thing he could have ever needed to get back at me for on the casing

TG: took apart the magazine and wrote down all the shit he decided he'd punish me with in return

TG: put it all back together and took the first shot the second i stepped into view of his crosshair

TG: motherfucker landed it where he knew it would hurt the most but little does he know that first shot was made long ago and back then he didn't have a gun

TG: all he had was his stupid Egbert face and his wily idiot charms and his stupid dork everything and you know what it did?

TG: you know what that fucking did to me Dirk

TG: it was enough to shoot me through the heart and there's still some shrapnel in my left chamber

TG: fuck

Fuck.

TG: it hurts

It, hurts.

TG: it gets worse every day

TG: how the hell do you do it Dirk

TG: how do you willingly cut yourself off from everyone you love or care about

TG: i'd honestly rather be dead because at least i'd maybe get to see them in dream bubbles

TG: i can't even catch Egbert on Derse or Prospit because someone's always dragging him away and i guess that's my fault for not getting there first

TG: god

God,

TG: why

_Why?_

TG: why does it have to be like this

Why does it have to _be_ like this?

TG: i shouldn't even be complaining

TG: isn't this what i wanted?

A scratch in his throat, something that catches and clogs at his airway, crawls into his lungs in order to etch itself into his soft tissues and sear and scrape at him, like pressing the inside of his flesh to the bottom of a serrated metal baking sheet that's been sitting in the oven for over an hour at 425 degrees. It all burns, oh, it burns, and clenches and tightens and he becomes charred with feelings he doesn't want. Is this his imagination, then? Is his mind playing cruel tricks on itself by warping his brother's words into a mirror of his own emotions? He doesn't know, he doesn't know, because at heart, they're both Striders, and though at their most basic level they're different people, they tend to make the same kinds of poor decisions for themselves. Distance. Lies. Mimicking at the surface a calm, collected, stable mentality that breaks the moment their thick and heavy surface layer is chipped away. This is what he wanted, though, isn't it? And isn't that also why he can't truly believe this is Dave's work?

But then he blinks and it's still there, bright red and almost blinding to his sensitive, tired eyes, even with the brightness turned lower than 25 percent. No, no. This is his brain, really, it is. A walk around the room and it'll be what it's supposed to be again, and he'll be able to give a real response. One, two, three paces, four, now, minutes go by and he's making indents in his floor and every time he turns his head back to the monitor it's unchanging, constant. He sits back down before his neurosis sends him in loops, cleans his glasses, too. The same. Turns the monitor off, then on again. Still just as it was. Switching tabs? What about closing it and then opening it again? Maybe it was an issue with the program-

No, no, still no, and no again, and again and again and here's his neurosis chasing him in circles with a snarled and ugly version of what his brain filed away for later, some abhorred amalgamation of every issue he's tried so hard to suppress and break apart and there they all are. Right in front of him, the things that only haunt him when he can't make it all the way to Derse while he's dreaming. Nightmares. Nightmares, all of them, those things, and then he remembers that he's living this nightmare, right now.

And maybe that's why his nails dig into his gaunt cheeks. Maybe that's why he slices into himself, unknowingly, because the useless scratching of his nails hurts less than the truth standing right in front of him. This is his own nightmare, that he's created for himself, and there's no way out,

is there?

Dave doesn't have to live the same nightmare. Dave, can be happy, and he'd scrap away his heart from the atrophied muscles of his chest if it meant giving Dave that happiness. So what does he do for him, then? He's already left him waiting long enough, hasn't he? He's still there. He's still there, waiting for an answer and he can't bring himself to go to bed until he's given him some solace to have for himself. What, _what,_ can he give?

TT: Dave, you decided to give yourself some stability and grounding after the game ended and no one can blame you for that. Not even yourself. But if you're ready for things to change, you can always change them.

Anything can be changed, even for the worst, even if things can't be fixed and there's only one way to go, and that way just happens to be down.

TT: It's not like you're stuck where you've put yourself.

Unless he wants to be stuck.

TT: And you and I both know that if you're really that important to John, he misses you. Probably just as much as you miss him right now.

And, does-does Jake, miss him?

TT: You're both trying to contact each other as much as possible, even with how busy you guys are, right?

He wishes, FUCK, he wishes, but it's his own fault, it's his own fault, it's-

TG: right

TG: but i don't know Dirk

TG: what if he's hiding something he wants to say from me

What if Jake is avoiding the unavoidable?

TG: what if he's only doing this because we've been best friends for way too long and he just can't be bothered to find a new one even if i don't fit the bill

What if he can’t be bothered to think about saying anything at all?

TG: what if he's waiting until i stop so he can quit feeling guilty over not wanting to talk to me

What if he’s waiting for him to talk to him just so he can laugh in his face?

TG: what if i'm a nuisance

Isn’t Dirk a nuisance?

TG: what if every time i talk to him he shirks away in disgust until he can gather the courage to fake something because he still feels the need to take care of my fragile feelings

What if..

TG: what if he wakes up every morning and vomits all over himself thinking about red text and gross analogies and metaphors and homoerotic coverups that thinly veil the truth of the matter

What if..

TG: what if he's figured it out and he wants nothing to do with me

What if...

TG: what if he never wanted anything to do with me at all

What, if...?

TG: i know it's shitty to think that way especially of John because for the most part he's a pretty genuine dude as a matter of fact you might say that he has trouble not sharing something with you when you ask him about it but i'll tell you what there's some level of secrecy to him that might be hard to catch for anyone else

TG: i know he has things to hide that he's hiding

TG: what if one of those things is the fact that he wants to drop my ass like last week's trash

TG: i don't wanna say i deserve it but he deserves to cut me out as he sees fit you know

TG: he's too kind to do it himself i think

TG: way too sweet to end it like that

TG: or i mean

TG: maybe he is

TG: i don't know

TG: maybe i don't know him as much as i wanna know him

Maybe.

TG: maybe he's showing me some idealized version of himself instead of coming clean

Maybe.

TG: doesn't he know that i wouldn't care if he brutally murdered my ass

He hopes Jake knows.

TG: i might even thank him for it

TG: i don't know if i wanna talk to him about all this or not

Dirk doesn’t-no, that’s not it, is it? Does...?

TG: but i guess now it's turned into ranting your eyes off because i'm failing to deal with my own shitty feelings the way i'm supposed to

TG: i should probably shut up before i embarrass myself any further because fuck i'm really good at that aren't i

Stupid,

mirror,

_images,_

and his fist narrowly misses his monitor, the wall underneath his knobby knuckles crackling into splinters of thin plaster. They embed themselves in his hand, shred at him so easily. Fuck, _fuck,_ he didn’t want to think about this right now, he-

Back on track. Back on track, now, he types away even as the splinters dig further into his languid fingers. The blood is going to gunk up his keyboard.

TT: No, it's okay. I think I'm going through something similar, but a little bit different.

TT: Not to be that guy or anything, but I think you should maybe talk to him and ask him what he wants to do, you know? Whether or not he wants to keep up the whole 'long distance friendship' thing.

TT: I know it's pretty scary to think about, but you're gonna be left in the dark if you don't come out and say something about it. If you want to be left in the dark, that's your choice, but I know you as someone who likes to be in the know. Like, you don't have to know everything, but you have to know enough about something in order to know what side you lie on.

TT: Maybe you should ask yourself if you can keep doing this, Dave. It's not really healthy for you to feel like shit over this.

TT: Who knows? Maybe he'll offer up a solution you'll really like and you guys can work towards something.

At least he knows he has something to fix, which is more than Dirk has. All Dirk has is a message sent years ago to him in green that reads ‘brb’. Brb. Be, right, back.

He never did come back.

Dirk never made an effort to ask where he went.

TG: i guess

TG: you know Rose told me to start writing some shit to help with whatever's goin on up in my funky little brain of mine

TG: i don't know if i like my shit but sometimes it helps

TG: maybe you should try it sometime bro

TG: like it doesn't have to be anything but barfing feelings up onto the page but sometimes it helps more to have characters deal with those things

TG: i hate spending more than a minute on making characters though so if they have to be like well rounded or some shit like that i just pick ones that already exist so i don't have to deal with the hassle of character building

TG: like fuck that shit man

TG: i'm writing about feelings i'm not writing a novel here

TT: Are you writing Fanfiction, Dave?

TG: you know what that's a loaded question and maybe i'd like that question to fuck right off to hell

TG: it can go yeet itself into the 9th layer of Dante's Motherfuckin Inferno or some shit like that i never wanna see that again like fuck man it's gonna make me upchuck all sorts of organs into the garbage compactor that is my disgust motherfucker what kind of

TG: 'are you writing fanfiction' since when does Dave Strider read or write anything close to dudes makin out and bein homos together Dave Strider only writes bro comics for bros and bein bros with your bro and no one gets rejected or anything like that no fuckin way because they don't do anything but be bros

TT: That would still be Fanfiction, Dave.

TG: fuck you man don't tell me my shit

TT: Hey, everyone writes homoerotic fanfiction at some point. It's just a universal constant.

TT: Even if that fanfiction is a joke text to their friend.

TT: It's not like it would be a bad thing, either, considering you know you're gay, dude. Might be good for you.

TG: that's not your business you ass

TT: Alright, alright, fair. Want me to let you go?

TG: i

TG: i dunno

TG: hard to admit it but i miss you

Oh.

That’s, hard to believe, too. Someone missing him? Isn’t that just laughable? He bets even his colleagues, who only have to interact with him for a few hours of the day, are overjoyed when his shift finally ends and he steps off the property. He would be. He’d be celebrating all night, doing shit that might cost him his job.

TG: you were kind of the only person i had around and then you just up and went

TG: i don't blame you for it but

TG: maybe i would have liked you to stay

TG: just for a little bit until i got myself sorted out and i know that's what you did but maybe a little longer

TG: i hate being alone

He does, too. He should have thought about that, huh? He’s so selfish.

TT: I'm sorry, Dave. I didn't mean to do that to you.

TG: i know bro i know and i told you i don't blame you for it like you've gotta go and do your own thing man

TG: don't forget to text me okay

TG: like i know you were the one who initiated this but i don't think i can take another person not contacting me

TT: Don't worry, Dave. I'll always be here if you need me, and I'm not gonna pass over an opportunity to talk with my brother.

TG: thanks

TG: that helps i think

TG: love ya man

TT: I love you too, Dave. Sleep well, alright?

TG: you too

timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

He hovers his mouse over the small black x in the corner before he notices that, hold on, there's someone else pestering him. Or, there _was_ someone else pestering him, he doesn't know if they're still there, and he's not sure if he can even deal with it right now. His face is heavy, muscles drooping away from bone as if they're nothing more than a draped sheet over twigs and toothpicks. He'd have snapped them with how brittle they are right now if he weren't so careful and slow. He decides, maybe, he'll do something else for a while, and then come back to it if he likes? Put away all the skeletons he has out, get his ducks in order before he has to shut his eyelids, so paper thin they could be sliced through even with soft fingernails after a shower.

But see, he’s curious. Roxy texted him a few weeks ago, Jane a few months, Eridan, a few days. Yeah, Eridan. Interesting how he takes more interest in him than his friends. Luckily for Dirk, not only is he not as much of a douchebag as everyone paints him to be, he’s actually pretty interesting to talk to, if not fun. Sometimes it’s comforting to have someone who’s hated just as much as he is to talk to, because then he’s not as alone.

Eridan wouldn’t be up this late. So, who?

He clicks to check on his recent messages and feels a wave of sickening terror crash through his mind and leave thick, soupy gray static, as his screen flashes green text, and a chumhandle he hasn’t seen in years.

golgothasTerror [GT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT]

No.

GT: dhirk

_No_.

GT: dgivk

It,

GT: i knowt syouwre therey

can’t be him.

GT: andwere me

There is,

GT: DIERK

no,

GT: DOINT IFNGWNORW MW DALMNITN

way in _hell,_

GT: i nwewd tp talj ti yiu avoyt aomethign

GT: irs' inpwrayive rhat i sidsvuss tgis qith oyu

GT: liaten durl imn siorrye

GT: o ibly meef a dexond og yout rimw

GT: idwear to fod durk ig yourwl ignring mw im goigntg to sckerch

GT: i ge tharsat i totdkaly desaerbe it burh i dont wawnt that

GT: ib qIATNG for ouy drik adn ib not mobign geom by xomouter unditl i dwe yovue replied

He might just have a heart attack if he spelt his name ri-

GT: dirk

.

Well, then, isn’t that, just, lovely?

GT: pleade

His pained, frantic panting echoes against the empty walls of his room as he slams the monitor against his desk, so much in disbelief that he temporarily went into shock and was convinced he was at a laptop. Only when he sees a fragment of the screen fall onto his leg does he realize exactly what he’s done. Or, does he? There’s so much going on, endless screeching and wailing and screaming so shrill and discordant that leaves him with no space to breathe, no space to think or feel or anything, all from his heart. No, no, not now, please, but at the same time don’t leave him, don’t have gone to bed or fallen asleep at the monitor because fuck, he’s missed him, everything in him is shrieking for him to look back, for him to answer and watch in real time as Jake gives him an answer back. Jake. Jake, right here, about an hour ago, while he was talking to Dave, waiting.

His head is pounding, ribs crackling from the raw weight of his heart’s voice, muscles throbbing and pulsing with smoldering, white hot pain. English, _English, n o w,_ or he’ll answer whether he likes it or not, and anxiety, a beast of pitch nothingness and empty, deep blue, rakes its claws through his rail-like form and bursts through the shredded hole in him, devours and swallows the whole of his being, and, trembling, horrified, even,

he gives in to the loud cries of his heart, timidly clicking at strong, stable keys that resist his every finger fall, and as he presses enter fearfully, the final button, the catalyst for his own demise

he wonders;

TT: Jake?

does he still love him?


End file.
